Elegy Food Poems | Elegy Poems About Food
These Elegy Food poems are examples of Elegy poems about Food. These are the best examples of Elegy Food poems written by international PoetrySoup poets
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October held 10 family birthdays
all between 4 houses on Troy Street.
Each night after dinner we
set out on our walk for cake.
Aunt Lory’s house was rum
Aunt Josies, buttercream frosted white,
and Aunt Lu’s lemon, bright yellow, rich and moist
could made her St. Joseph’s statue drool.
We’d gather around the birthday boy perched on a chair,
while us cousins stood, shoulder to shoulder,
eagerly waiting for the last note of the song to be sung.
I stood eye level to the burning numbered candles,
mesmerized by their melting wax dripping
down the sides like sap from a tree.
Their light, drunk on sugar, danced wildly
across our hungry faces.
Then with one large blow the room went black.
In those few seconds Darkness, like eternity
steals all their faces from my sight.
The room frozen, suspended precariously between
feast and fear, grief and gratitude, love and loss.
Lights return to applause as the knife cuts deep into the center.
Wishes like prayers are sent rising as curls of smoke
through a chimney, up, up to places far away.
Paper plates of sugar splendor are passed down and devoured.
We didn’t realize then, just silly girls with frost covered lips,
how everything of importance in this world fit at the end of that fork.
With full bellies our good-byes are said on porch lite steps.
And the moon, like a lantern, radiant in the Autumn sky
illuminates our way home till our next walk,
Aunt Mary’s luscious chocolate layer cake.
Copyright © Ann Ricci | Year Posted 2012
No more Twinkies, no more Yodels;
Say farewell to Sno Balls, too.
Ring Dings soon will be extinct
And Devil Dogs, as well, are through.
Plus you’ll have to wonder where
Your fluffy white bread went because
If Wonder was the brand you bought,
This news I bring will give you pause:
For Hostess brands (and Drakes as well)
Have closed their doors, declared defeat;
But oh, those squiggle cupcakes! They,
In childhood days, were such a treat!
Hostess cakes are front and center
When I’m sweetly reminiscing.
I feel bad for kids today
And all those Twinkies they’ll be missing!
Copyright © ilene bauer | Year Posted 2012
Little burnt bodies,
loud tortured screams.
These little souls are now paraded – skewered on beams.
They have no voice to speak,
their tormented, painful cries are disregarded.
And after the soulless bastards have torn flesh from bones – like trash, they are discarded.
Mothers mourn their starved-to-death babies,
some of their cellmates are riddled with rabies.
When the executer comes to collect his daily, raw merchandise –
they cower in corners, wishing to live another day not being butchered and eaten…with a side of rice.
You’d think that a humane slaughter would suffice?
Think again, their hearts and souls are colder than ice!
They laugh with pleasure at the agonising screams
of these innocent little souls - still alive – advertised in streets.
From electrocution - not enough to kill,
to being hacked up by blunt machetes – still alive, and gravely ill,
to being boiled alive – just for the thrill,
to the final seconds of scourging…pleading for the passing of a Bill,
with lifeless bodies and fading lighted eyes,
for a shameless government to sacrifice
a maltreating tradition, a decision unwise.
Remember – a world remembers what they see,
and this cruel exhibition will eventually turn upon thee!
Copyright © Sinead Terblanche | Year Posted 2016
Her paintings of sarongs I'm going to see
will be there for two months,
I think, at Lake Of The Clouds
Arts. I heard this in the news: Layers died last week.
Native Brown Bear got studied thoroughly.
It has been exonerated. The Killer Brown
has been exonerated, according to the news.
According to some searching I find out the layers
are just mist...
Paintings by the girl are hung
around the den.
Her mother uses it as the favorite
of my wrongs.
She paints bears and she is a rising
Mars. The mother brown bear ate spoiled food we had.
We left that food out in saran wrap.
I am unwrapping in the layers of mist
unrolling in the folds of rayon.
The girl's mother hated that sarong
that people on the lake gave
to the young artist before the lake died. And no one
denies giving her the sarong
and her paintings of bears and of sarongs
are with her at the opening at the Lake Arts tonight...
Copyright © albert geiser | Year Posted 2011